Carrying on a tune
by mirrorballsymphony
Summary: A series of oneshots/drabbles based on the titles to various songs - examples include White Lies (Paolo Nutini) and The Chain (Fleetwood Mac). Will mainly be Watch-centric, but other characters may make an appearance.
1. White Lies

**This is going to be a series of oneshots or drabbles (depends on how much time I've got) based on the titles and lyrics of songs in my Ipod library, so expect a few weird titles. They'll mostly be based on the Watch series, as is most of my fanfiction, but the witches may make several appearances (go Nanny Ogg!)**

**Enjoy :)**

White Lies - Paolo Nutini -Sam Vimes/Sybil Ramkin

She didn't need to know.

She didn't need to know about him: what he did, what he had done, who he had hurt, who he had killed.

It wasn't murder. If he had been a man trained in jurisprudence Samuel Vimes would have called it manslaughter if he was in an honest mood, self-defence if he wasn't. But it was _not_ murder.

Murder implied a motive apart from 'to stop them killing me'; it implied that he had set out to kill the person, not, by sheer chance, had his hands around the other person's throat before he was stabbed by their knife; it implied that he had wanted to do it, that he had taken pleasure (apart from those brief seconds where he felt invincible) in killing them.

He never enjoyed doing it. It was just luck that he always seemed to be the one who was on top at the right time, and who had the sharpest reflexes. Not to mention the sharpest knife.

He was vaguely aware of the fact that gods play games with the lives of men, but it definitely did not apply to him. Gods wouldn't dare come near to him.

But what if the gods were playing games, if it was all a big joke to them? If death, if murder was just something that happened to other beings, something that didn't _matter_?

It was these sorts of things that made his hand reach for the whiskey bottle, until he saw Carrot's reproachful look in his mind. Or worse, Sybil's expression.

Sybil didn't deserve a wreck like him. She deserved someone nice, less cynical, more at home in the ways of what he would politely call 'posh nobs'. He had a horrible feeling that she had married him in pity, or out of fear of what would happen if she didn't.

But they were happy, weren't they? They had this baby on the way, they appeared to be blissfully in love to all around them.

Vimes knew it was because of the white lies.

He hadn't meant to start them, but he wanted Sybil to stay out of the Watch. It would only get her hurt, and where would he be without her?

She had asked him what he really did when he was working.

'Paperwork,' he replied.

She had laughed, though a faint glimmer of uncertainty had passed through her eyes.

Then, when she had enquired about the constant bloodstains on his clothing he had laughed it off, said it was just red ink or some stupid excuse like that. Again, she seemed uncertain, but seemed to accept it.

He knew that she had asked Cheery what exactly it was that the title 'Watchman' entailed, but Cheery, loyal to Vimes, had said that it just meant keeping the peace.

Keeping the peace. Hah. Keeping the peace, that had been his job description for thirty years, and he still didn't know what it meant. He doubted midnight chases with murderers and swindlers, the glint of silver in a shadow or the Friendly Handshake came into it. It sounded like a term Carrot would use, even though deep in his soul Vimes knew Carrot didn't believe in it anymore. Be a watchman for too long, you lost that optimism. He was sure that Carrot didn't believe it.

Just about sure.

Was his marriage wrong, to be built on a creaking pillar of white lies? Or did everyone think that a tiny untruth would make the world so much safer, so much simpler if the other person didn't know the reality of what he was doing.

The reality of it was that he was doing his job. It wasn't glamorous, it was dangerous, terrifying, harmful. If he had been telling a lie he would have said that Sybil couldn't have a place in the Watch; it was a separate world to hers. If he had been telling the truth he would have said that he didn't _want_ Sybil to have a place in the Watch.

Sybil, who thought he was a good man, couldn't know what it was that he did. Sybil thought it was all parades and paperwork, that the risky work was done by other people.

But when would she realise that he was other people? He was the sort of person who had to hurt as part of their job, someone who had been brought up with fists outstretched.

And this baby, this child of his, what would he be? Would he have to know?

Vimes looked at the sleeping shape of his wife lying beside him.

Would he ever be able to tell her?


	2. Message in a Bottle

Message in a Bottle - The Police - Granny Weatherwax/Mustrum Ridcully

Granny Weatherwax sighed and put the box back onto the top shelf.

She had been looking at the letters again. His spiky, untidy handwriting carving out the words, every one signed off with a cheerfully optimistic 'Write soon'. She never did.

She remembered those months. Oh, she remembered them well.

'What are you doing?' she had asked him.

Mustrum was leaning over the side of the bridge, dangling something on the end of a fishing rod in the water.

'I'm sending a message.'

'Who to?'

'Why does there need to be a somebody?'

She had turned and leaned with her back against the stones, facing away from him, staring up at the sky. 'Well, there ain't much point sending a letter to nobody.'

'Someone might pick it up, though. I'm seeing if I can trace it.'

He held up his staff. The end of it was glowing red.

'It glows red if it's near the bottle, then gets darker as it gets further away.'

'But how will you know where to start looking?'

He looked pleased with himself. 'My address is in the bottle. If they get it, they can send me a letter saying where it is.'

'Then what's the point in that staff?'

'I'll be able to know precisely where it is.'

'More precisely than the letter tells you?'

He tutted. 'Esme, you have no use for magic.'

'I do!'

'No, I mean no use for fancy magic. For...experimenting. For doing stuff which doesn't need to be done.'

'What's the point in doing anythin' that don't need to be done?'

'You could do something because you want to do it.'

'I wants what needs to be done.'

He sighed. 'Just, for once, can you consider doing something for yourself?'

She considered it. 'There ain't anything that I needs to do.'

'Need.'

'Huh?'

'Never mind.'

'What address did you put in that bottle?' she asked sharply.

He looked uncomfortable. 'The university's.'

'You still going?'

'Of course.'

'I don't get why you don't stay here.'

'Look, Esme,' he paused, 'you wouldn't understand. You don't have ambition.'

'I don't have ambition?'

'Not ambition for something greater.'

'I'm going to be the best witch around these parts,' she said smugly.

He looked at her sympathetically. 'And then what? What will you do after you've become the Grand High Witch, or whatever it is?'

'Witches don't have titles.'

'They don't need them,' Mustrum replied accurately. 'They know where they stand. But I want to go and be a wizard, I want to make something of my life.'

'You're saying I ain't making nothing of my life?'

'What is it that you want, Esme? What is it that you truly want in the future?'

She should have said something like 'to help people' or, if she was being sentimental, 'you'. But both would have been a lie.

'To be the best.'

'The best what, though?'

'The best witch. I've told you.'

'But why, Esme?'

'Because witches are better'n me now. I want to be better than 'em.'

'What will that gain you? Something to be proud of?'

'Yeah. Why else would I be doing it?'

'I'm going to be a wizard because I want the power, or the knowledge, or the pointy hat. You want to be a witch so you can be a witch.'

'What else is there?'

'Look at Gytha. She wants to help people.'

'No, she wants to get men,' Esme said cuttingly.

'It's still a better reason than pride.'

'She's gonna be dancing around in the nuddy.'

'And would you do that? If it got you something to be proud of.'

'Depends what it was.'

He shook his head. 'I swear I will never get you. Ever.'

He started walking towards the village, leaving the message to float away.

'Where are you going?'

'Back home. Oh, remember I'm leaving tomorrow.'

She stood up slightly taller, because otherwise she would have done something stupid like run after him. 'I'll see you,' she called.

'When, Esme?' he shouted. 'Tomorrow, or when you've achieved enough to let me back.'

'When I've got time.'

He waved his hands around him as he walked backwards. 'You've got nothing but time.'

'Yeah, but I'm using it.'

'Using too much to come and see me?'

'Depends. Don't know what I've got on tomorrow.'

He didn't reply, just turned back and walked away.

Esme stood on the bridge, feeling the rough stones against her hands as she leaned over the bridge and watched the tiny speck of the bottle travel down the river.

She realised she didn't even know his address.


	3. Some Riot

**Some Riot - Elbow - Carrot Ironfoundersson/Angua von Überwald**

**Based on the line,****_ 'A beautiful, quivering, chivalrous shambles'_****. Guy Garvey must be some sort of God to come up with lyrics like these. **

The arrow flew through the air like...like a silver bullet. It caught Angua in the chest and flung her backwards.

Vimes turned backwards as he heard the scream. 'Angua!' he yelled.

Carrot kept running. He hadn't heard the scream.

'Carrot!' Angua shouted hoarsely.

He turned round, and started sprinting towards her. Another arrow grazed his shoulder, but he kept on running.

Vimes reached her first, and frantically tried to pull the arrow out until Angua cried with the pain. She grabbed his wrist, and he could feel the coldness in her hands.

'It's barbed. And silver.'

Vimes turned round and saw Carrot rush straight into Angua. She yelped and he pulled away.

'You'll be fine,' he said quickly, proving at the skin around the arrow as tears ran down her face. 'You'll be fine.'

'Carrot, stop.'

'Why?'

'Because you're hurting me.'

'But I can get it out!'

'It's silver, Carrot.'

He went dead still. 'Are you sure?'

She smiled wanly, though Vimes could see the pain it caused her. 'When have I not been?'

He picked her up and she winced. 'We'll get you back to the Yard.'

'Don't bother, Carrot,' she said faintly.

'You're delusional,' Carrot said.

'I'm not.'

'You can't be dying.'

'I am.'

He put her back on the ground gently. 'This isn't how it's supposed to go!'

'You never knew that.'

Vimes walked away until he couldn't see them, but was still in earshot.

Carrot was sitting down next to Angua, and Vimes could see faint tear tracks glimmering on his cheeks. Angua held one hand up towards him and he grasped it like an anchor, like he could save her by sheer determination.

Angua's lips moved, and Carrot put an ear to her mouth to hear her. Vimes could guess what she said.

And then it was over.

Carrot sat dead still for a moment or two, as if some sort of internal battle prevented him from moving. Then he stood up, gently lifting Angua's body.

Vimes walked quickly over to him. 'I'll take that.'

'I'll do it.' Carrot's voice was quiet, but seemed to echo inside him. Vimes had never seen him sound so hollow, so devoid of emotion, that still. He simply nodded.

He put a hand onto Angua's leg and felt it starting to stiffen.

'Can you take her back, Carrot?' he asked. 'I need to finish this one.'

Carrot just nodded. His eyes were blank.

Vimes looked at Angua's watch, that he knew she didn't need but kept anyway, to thank Carrot.

It was ten days until full moon.

* * *

There was a crowd waiting outside Pseudopolis Yard as Carrot arrived. He pushed them aside and went into the mortuary.

'Can I be of aththithtance, sir?' Igor asked, forgetting to lisp again.

'I'd like a moment alone, please.'

Carrot's voice seemed dead, and Igor nodded. 'Of course, thur.'

As he exited Carrot looked down at Angua.

She seemed so peaceful. She was never at peace; even asleep Carrot had always thought she was about to run out of the door, fleeing. It was her ground state of being.

Gently, making sure not to disturb her, he took off her top and looked at where the tip of the arrow protruded into her skin. Around it, the skin was taut and swollen, blisters had formed around the point at which the silver entered. She must have been in agony.

He did his best to get the arrow out cleanly, but it still left a mess which he wiped with a cloth. Then he did her top back up and just watched her, trying to remember everything.

It was sad, he thought, that he had never really seen her until now. She had always been protecting something inside her, now he would never know what it was. Her grey eyes were open and staring, so he pulled the lids down, remembering how he used to do the same thing to help her calm down. The darkness helped, she had said.

Already he was changing tense in his head.

When Vimes entered, bloody and bruised, two hours later, Carrot didn't even turn round.

'I got him,' Vimes said.

Carrot didn't reply.

Vimes soaped his cuts and bandaged them up whilst Carrot watched her silently.

Eventually Vimes came and put a hand on Carrot's shoulder. 'You're freezing, lad.'

He shrugged, not caring.

'Come on, come back upstairs.'

'No.'

'Carrot, she's not coming back. It was silver.'

'It isn't full moon yet.'

'It's nearly two weeks 'til full moon. She's not coming back.'

Carrot shook his head. 'I'm not going up there.'

Vimes recognised another dimension to his words. He didn't want the sympathy, the constant attention, the special treatment. He wanted to keep his sadness to himself.

'Come up later, then,' he found himself saying. 'When you're done.'

He turned and walked up the stairs, berating himself for just leaving the two of them there.

A few minutes after the door had closed Carrot started to cry.

'Why?' he asked, staring down at her still face, the mouth that would never smile again, the eyes that would never stare into his. 'Why?' he repeated.

No one answered.

* * *

It was a week later.

Carrot knew he had barely spoken, had barely eaten, had barely moved since she had died. He knew that he was crying at night, that the skin under his eyes was red and swollen and that his cheeks were covered in stubble. He didn't care, though.

He did his job, though - no one could ever say that he didn't work. He worked obsessively, though; he spent his days and sleepless nights sorting out paperwork, cleaning the watch house, dealing with the complaints. He never went out, though, he never walked around or visited the museums. What was the point?

One night, Vimes had offered for him to come and stay with him and Sybil, seeing as he was alone in the Yard. Barely anyone slept there anymore, most watchmen had somewhere to go. He had declined as politely as he could, and was slightly hurt when Vimes looked faintly relieved.

Angua's body was down at Small Gods. It was her funeral today.

He put down the report he was working on, straightened out his uniform and walked downstairs. A crowd of worried faces was waiting for him.

His voice cracked slightly as he talked. 'You are coming, aren't you?'

'Yeah,' Colon replied from the back of the room. 'We were waiting for you.'

Carrot looked at the assembled watchmen, and walked out of the door.

Only coppers at a copper's funeral, Vimes had said.

But this time, there were a few more people.

The watchmen were there, of course, but then there were the people from Mrs Cake's, the people from Biers, the people from the Fresh Start Club (although he knew they were only there because Reg paid them). All undead. Even Igor the barman was there, with an elderly Mrs Gammage in a wheelchair.

Then there was a wolf, sitting with Gaspode and the Canting Crew. He even looked a bit like Angua.

Carrot turned away, and listened to Mister Vimes, not wanting to remember. He was talking about Angua being a good copper, a good friend, a good person. And that's what she wanted the most, to be a good person.

He remembered something, and walked over to the wolf.

'You're the translator, I guess,' he told Gaspode, who shifted uncomfortably.

'Well, he's bigger'n me, you see.'

'What does he have to say?'

'First of all, this is Andrei-'

'I knew that.'

There was an edge in Carrot's voice that Gaspode recognised from once before, when he heard about Gavin. 'He's her brother, and he heard she had died from one of the Sammies. He came 'ere on the mail cart.'

'That was good of him,' Carrot said, staring at the wolf. Andrei whined slightly.

'He says, he says Angua made her life good. She could have become some man-eating monster, sorry, his words, not mine, but she didn't let herself. She didn't want to break.'

'Not like Wolfgang.'

Andrei growled under his breath.

'No, not like him. And he says that he wishes he'd seen you two together, because she loves you so much. She fought her family for you, and the wolf says you don't understand how hard that was to do, to put her one last chance at risk for you, but she did it.' Gaspode looked uncomfortable, but continued. 'He says that he can see how much you love her, and how much you are hurtin', but he says it'll be fine.'

'It'll be fine,' Carrot spat. 'Have you any idea how many people have told me that over the last week?'

'He means-'

'She was...she was everything, and now she's gone, and I never did enough for her-'

'The wolf means something different,' Gaspode said quickly. 'Says you never know with werewolves.'

Carrot paused. 'You mean-'

'Yep.'

'No. I can't live the rest of my life thinking that she's going to come back at some point.'

Andrei put a paw on Carrot's wrist.

'The wolf says...the wolf says it's only two days 'til full moon.'

Andrei howled softly.

'He says can you wait until then?'

* * *

It was full moon. Carrot had drawn the curtains; he didn't want to remember.

He was drawing a detailed plan of the Number Seven shaft, and wondering whether to go home. He couldn't face it in the city.

The door, contrary to all its oiling, creaked open.

Carrot could see Angua's figure outlined in the silver light. He simply stared.

'But you-'

'Full moon,' she said softly.

'But it was silver.'

She shrugged. 'Don't ask me how. Don't ask me why. I just thank the gods that the grave was shallow.'

'How-' Carrot paused. 'Wait, people can sort of hear Gaspode, can't they?'

'His smell was there. So was Andrei's. Carrot, what have I missed?'

'I don't know what you've missed.'

She looked at the unmade bed, the stubble, how hollow his cheeks had become. 'You haven't gone downstairs.'

'I was waiting.'

'You were hurting.'

They looked at each other. 'Yes,' Carrot said simply.

Angua stared into his eyes, and thought she saw the spark come back into them.

The moonlight shone through the gaps in the curtains but, lying on the bed with Carrot, Angua didn't change. But she didn't even think about it.


	4. Stairway to Heaven

**Stairway to Heaven - Led Zeppelin - Cheery Littlebottom**

People said it was different in the big city.

Ankh-Morpork, city of a thousand species and a million people, a city where, from what Cheery had heard, you could be yourself. She wasn't quite sure what she was, apart from the fact that she had started to use the pronoun 'she' in her head, not to mention 'her'. It just seemed that other people weren't quite so open.

Every dwarf was going to the city now, sick with the dirt and the ground and the mining. Although they knew that to be a real dwarf you had to be obsessed with gold and mining, they somehow weren't as attracted to it once they knew what was above ground.

What was above ground? Cheery had only ever heard rumours, but they sounded good. The streets were paved with…gold, or something like that. Though she was a little sick of gold. Silver was more…stylish.

Anyway, whatever the material of the streets, Cheery was sure that there were opportunities there, regardless of what the opportunities actually were. And in the city, you could be anyone and no one would look twice at you – she had heard that humans could become dwarfs now, and that to be a dwarf you didn't need to quaff or sing about gold. In the privacy of her own head, she wondered how long that would last.

So she had gone to the big city. And it wasn't so different from home.

She was lodging with her uncle and trying to find some sort of employment where being expelled from the Alchemist's Guild wouldn't count against her. After all, she had thought it might be a little too close to mining for her liking. As a dwarf from Uberwald, she learnt, she could only live between Sheer Street and Easy Street; if she ventured turnwise she would be hung up from the town hall, or the Morporkian equivalent. It was like home all over again.

She found a dwarf bar just off one of the little alleyways. There was shouting coming from it. After a few minutes, a small figure came flying out of the window.

As she ran over to him she heard muffled cursing, in a mixture of Dwarfish and Morporkian. She recognised the voice.

'Minty?'

The figure groaned. In her head, Cheery corrected it to 'she'.

She reached down and shook her, smelling the alcohol on her clothes. 'Minty!'

Blearily, the dwarf looked at her. 'Who're you?'

'I'm Cheery. I visited Copperhead once, you dated my brother. Remember?'

'Not so much. I mean,' Minty managed to shakily sit up, 'I remember him. But not you.'

'I didn't stay for long.'

'He got blown up, yeah?'

Cheery winced. 'Yes. Right under the mountains. Ironically, testing out that thing that you Copperheads gave him.'

'Did not!'

Cheery really did not want to get into the whole Copperheads vs. Schmaltzburger conflict, so she stayed neutral. 'Need any help?'

Minty glared at her. 'Are you available?'

'What?'

'Y'know. Available for a relationship.'

'No. No! I mean, if I was male, then yes, but, I mean.' Cheery was babbling. 'It's just…'

'Oh. You're female.'

'Yes.' Cheery paused. 'Minty, what happened to you?'

'You change,' the dwarf said simply.

'And you changed…to this?'

'Better this than a male, alcoholic, shouting dwarf. You've got no idea how normal this is for humans.'

If Cheery had known the phrase 'You just hit on me!' she would have said it. However, dwarfs don't have much use for that sort of thing. Instead, she settled for just staring at her.

'Oh, relax. Look, there's an organisation and everything.'

'I think I went there.' Cheery remembered the woman dressed all in cheap red velvet with huge hair. And no beard.

'Well, they're hoping to infiltrate the new market.'

'You mean… dwarfs?'

'Why not? Everyone else uses their services.'

'But…dwarfs?'

'You'd be surprised the number of clients I get.'

Cheery shuddered. 'So why did you start this profession?'

'Well, after Snorey, and after Carrot, I got a bit lonely.'

'Carrot?'

Minty shrugged. 'Human who thought he was a dwarf, and not great at deductive reasoning. I went out with him for a year or so, until he left.'

'Where did he go?'

'Where does anyone go? Here, of course. He's in the Watch.'

'What's that?'

'Law enforcers, when they can be bothered. You should try 'em, if you're interested in alchemy.'

'How did you-'

'Cheery, you have no eyebrows.'

Cheery sighed. When dwarfs had so much hair the lack of eyebrows was pretty noticeable. 'Do you see Carrot much?'

Minty laughed, and her necklaces jangled. 'He's got himself another woman now. They seem pretty close.'

'Closer than you two?'

'Yes. You could say that. But look,' she twirled around, 'at what I am now.'

Cheery watched her sadly. 'I thought it would be different here.'

'For who? For you? Because you might be able to make a difference.'

'For females.'

'Ah. That.'

'Look around,' Cheery said. 'Women here, they can do what they want, they can outwardly be female. Why shouldn't we have that chance?'

Minty shrugged. 'If I was any good at philosophy I wouldn't be standing here. But why don't you try to change it?'


	5. Bad Blood

**Bad Blood - Bastille - Mossy Lawn**

**Set approximately 10 years after Night Watch - Snapcase is Patrician, though employs the same methods as Winder, and the Watch is defunct. **

**Enjoy :)**

Dr Lawn snapped on his gloves and winced as the next patient was wheeled in.

He made himself calm, though. It didn't do to upset the patient.

'Rough night?' he asked calmly.

The patient groaned slightly, and opened his eyes with a look of alarm.

'Relax,' Lawn told him, turning to the concerned citizen who'd brought him in and raising his eyebrows.

'Unmentionables,' the man hissed.

'Yes, I know that-'

'No, I mean his unmentionables.'

Lawn looked down at the man, who looked at him in agony. His nose was broken, and one ear had careful puncture marks all up one side. He didn't want to look under the dirty blanket that someone had helpfully thrown over him.

They were common sights in the city now, though. Snapcase and his thugs would arrest you just for looking at them sideways, just like Winder had. Nothing had changed in the city, apart from the name of the leader and the status of the Watch.

Lawn looked down at the patient. 'Let's get started, then.'

The man groaned again.

'Me too, mate.'

* * *

In a brief moment of respite, Mossy Lawn kicked the scalpel off the table and propped his feet up on it. He raised his mug of coffee to his lips.

This city, he thought, was unchangeable. A more optimistic mind would say that the political system was unchangeable, but Lawn thought it was the city. Anyone was driven mad just by looking at the chaos, not to mention running it. It took a special sort of mind to keep a city on the brink of collapse permanently, and no one had it. No one who wanted to run the city, anyway.

There was a knock on the door. Lawn sighed, and went over to it, stepping back quickly as a body was thrown through the door and landed heavily on the tiles.

From the darkness he could hear someone shout, 'You're a bloody disgrace.'

Lawn quickly dragged the man inside, slammed the door and groaned as he heard the thump and tinkle of a bottle being thrown at his door. He knew the sound well by now.

As gently as he could, he slapped the man round the face. Eyes opened blearily, and Lawn felt his heart sink.

'Not you again, Vimes.'

Vimes shook his head to try and clear the alcohol fumes. 'Weren't me,' he said indistinctly.

'Then why are you in my front hall?'

'Weren't the drink.'

A few pricks of uncertainty pierced Lawn's mind. 'The Unmentionables got you?'

'No.' Vimes managed to pull himself up and rest against the wall. 'S'city.'

'What?'

'This city,' Vimes said a little clearer. 'Only madmen...an'...madmen'd live 'ere.'

Lawn felt a little insulted. 'What do you mean?' he asked, desperate to keep Vimes talking. Who knew what he would be doing if he didn't have the distraction.

'The city'sa cesspit,' Vimes murmured. 'Destroyin' my Watch.'

'Your Watch?'

Vimes grinned crookedly. 'I got made Cap'n.' His face fell. 'Of a...of a...defunct!' he said triumphantly.

'A defunct what?'

'A defunct...Watch. Yeah, Watch. We ain't no use.'

Lawn didn't really want to agree with him.

'Jus' me'n'Fred'n'Nobby,' Vimes mumbled. 'S'not right.'

Lawn looked up at the window, and thought he saw a figure silhouetted against the streetlight.

'All the bastard's fault,' Vimes continued. 'Snapcase. More like nutcase.' He dissolved into laughter.

Outside, the figure shifted slightly.

'Vimes, you need to go,' Lawn said urgently.

'Why?'

'Because I think someone's following you.'

Vimes was silent for a minute. 'Where shall I go?'

'Just go back to the Watch House. I'll let you out the back.'

Vimes stood up shakily. 'Why?'

'I don't know why they're following you, and I really don't want to!'

Lawn had managed to get the right key in the back door, and it turned with a well-oiled sound. Vimes frowned.

'Many people go out the back?'

Vimes's voice sounded a little more sober. 'More people come in that way,' Lawn said grimly.

Vimes looked into the gloomy, nondescript alley. 'Where is I?'

So much for sobriety. 'Between Twinkle and Treacle Mine.'

Vimes's eyes narrowed. Finally, he nodded at Lawn and walked into the fog. Lawn could hear the crash as he tripped over one of the many crates that he had put there, ironically, to deter the Watch.

He closed the door quietly, hearing the lock click with some comfort.

There was a knock on the front door.

Apprehensively, Lawn walked up to the door and opened it a crack.

'Yes?' he asked cautiously.

'I've got a man 'ere who tried to smash a bottle into your door,' a disembodied voice said.

Lawn sighed. 'Bring him in.'


	6. Alibi

Alibi - David Gray

Sergeant Jackrum listened patiently to his commanding officer.

'You are aware that the...man known as Froc has been acting oddly recently.'

'Yessir,' Jackrum said, staring at a point three inches above the rupert's shoulder.

'We have come to the conclusion that there is more than meets the eye.'

'There often is, sir.'

'Do you understand my meaning, Jackrum?'

'Can't say I do, sir.'

The captain sighed, and inwardly Jackrum grinned.

'We are unsure of his sex, Jackrum,' the captain said bluntly.

'You mean who and what and where, sir? Well, he's always seemed a normal lad to me.'

'No, it's that-'

'Oh, you mean he plays for the other side. Well, there's nothing wrong with that, is there? Don't tell, don't mortify.'

'No-' The captain hesitated. 'Well, it could be that.'

'What else could it be, sir?' Jackrum raised his eyebrows challengingly.

The captain regarded him calmly for a few seconds, before deciding not the press him. There was something unnervingly knowledgeable in the man's eyes. 'Of course, it's merely his sexuality that we're questioning,' he said uncertainly.

'I see. And what do you think I should do?'

At that moment, the commander wasn't quite sure about why Jackrum was even there. He was sure he hadn't invited him in, but his memory had been a bit shaky recently. Maybe he should go and get a drink...

Jackrum was looking at him questioningly.

'Just...have a quiet word with Froc, will you?'

'What would you like me to say?'

'Oh, just warn him, or something.'

'Warn him? He's done nothing wrong.'

'Then just caution him. He doesn't need to tell the world.'

Jackrum nodded, though there was a glint of a challenge in his eye. 'Yessir.'

'Good man. You may leave.'

* * *

Silently, Sergeant Jackrum handed the girl, who he had spotted right away with the lack of an Adam's apple, a pair of socks.

She took them wordlessly. 'What do I do with them?'

'You know, stuff 'em down yer trousers. You don't bulge, lad.'

She nodded cautiously. 'Has someone noticed?'

'Let's just say you can't be too careful, eh?'


End file.
